Spare Light
by The Tiramisu Of Impending Doom
Summary: ‘He doesn’t think he could handle a woman like her anyway, but for a friend he can’t think of anyone better.’ Havoc and Hawkeye have a little chat. Oneshot.


Spare Light

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Just borrowing the characters for awhile.

A/N: No idea when this takes place in the series, really, but I wanted to write about Havoc's and Hawkeye's friendship because it seems to me that she's really nice to him in the "Bachelor Lieutenant" episode. But if you see a romance in this thing, I'm going to have to disagree with your punkass, because I believe that Riza belongs to Roy and vice versa. (But she'd definitely glomp Havoc if she didn't have Roy). Thanks. Hope you enjoy the story.

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He sits in the apartment at the round table in the kitchen, shoulders slumped and head bowed. Once again, he's been rendered speechless, a result of his undying misfortune with the female sex.

First Lieutenant Hawkeye is moving about quietly, and then she pauses to pour him a cup of hot vanilla tea he probably won't drink.

After being ridiculed once again, by both his comrades and his supposed date, he ended up at her door a few hours ago. She let him in without a word, and they've been silent ever since. Riza. The only person he could find the will to turn to, even though he knows she's off limits, as far as romance goes. Roy Mustang would burn him to a crisp, even if he won't voice any jealous rage, the moron. And that's just fine with Havoc. He doesn't think he could handle a woman like her anyway, but for a friend he can't think of anyone better.

Well… there's always 'man's best friend,' he supposes. But it's not the same. Black Hayate sits close to his chair, and every few moments he feels the soft fur against his leg when the dog moves.

And of course, Hawkeye mercilessly confiscated his cigarettes. His lighter too. They're somewhere in her pocket and he'd be bold to go after them, especially since she's still wearing her gun, the weapon tucked away in its holster. It would only take a second for her to point it at his head.

When she returns to his side, he doesn't hear her, but he sees her hand slide the teacup and saucer across the table to him. Then she pulls out a chair for herself and sits down, her hands clasped on the table. She watches him steadily and says nothing at first.

He brings glazed eyes to the cup, and hypnotically, as though she'd placed a candle in front of him, he watches the steam rise and twirl from the contents. Then his eyes slip out of focus, and he hears a quiet sigh.

"Please drink it, Jean," she softly requests.

It's so strange how the lieutenant behaves. Unshakable badass with a rifle in one moment and a gentle lamb in the next. Or maybe… a wolf in sheep's clothing.

At that thought, he thinks he'd better obey. He doesn't like trouble.

Reluctantly, he lifts his hand from his thigh to take the cup and bring it to his lips for a tentative sip. It burns his tongue, and he sets it back down on the table, trying to ignore the pain in his mouth.

"Just what is it, anyway?" he mumbles.

"…It's tea, Jean," she replies.

"I know that," he says irritably, but the short-lived twinkle in his eyes belies his tone. "I mean… What is it… that makes me so unlucky?" He brings his gaze to hers, thinking that he might get an answer just by looking at her.

She meets his gaze head-on, rust-colored eyes to blue, and it makes him think of Ishbalites with their fierce red eyes and even more passionate hearts.

"I don't think it's a matter of luck, Jean," she answers softly. "Maybe it's the women you choose…"

"Doesn't it bother you that the colonel doesn't take you out?" he blurts out from nowhere.

He regrets saying that, because she closes her mouth to clench her jaw, and then she averts her eyes from his to study the dark blue tablecloth.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," he quickly apologizes, anxiously twisting the cup in place. "That was out of line."

"We have our duties," she murmurs vaguely, dismissing his apology with a shake of her head. "And if our relationship was more well-known, there would be consequences…"

"More well-known? It's pretty damn obvious to me."

She smiles lightly, her eyes narrowed as she considers him. "You know what I mean, I think."

"I suppose…"

After his half-hearted reply, she goes on, "I think you're a good man, Jean, and you know how to treat a girl right. Handsome too. And I'm sure someone will find you someday…"

He takes another sip of the tea. It hurts less to drink this time. "I don't know about that," he answers after awhile, his typical sardonic tone returning. He doesn't know about a lot of things, especially about him being handsome. The lieutenant is just being nice.

"I know it's hard… but you can't let it get to you," she continues. "Just remember that you have people who need you, and that we're here to help…"

"Except Falman, Breda, and Fuery, who are conspiring against me," he points out grumpily.

"Yes, except those three."

"So that basically leaves me with… Mustang and you..." He frowns a little at that. Mustang was put on the planet to make him look bad. "…On second thought, maybe just you."

"I'm here to help you, Havoc, but don't push it."

With a roguish grin, he looks up, pleased to see her smiling too, though her smile is more subtle.

"Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Havoc?"

"Would you pity a man with a cigarette?"

A few seconds tick past before she draws out the box from her pocket, her lips tightly pressed together. He reaches for the case eagerly and takes it from her, trembling as he draws out a cigarette.

Nicotine addict. Bad luck with the ladies. Finds the company of a strict gunslinger woman somewhat comforting. Will beg for physical affection. Yes sir, he'll make a fine partner, whenever the mystery girl Riza spoke of finds him. He'd much rather go find her...

He puts the cigarette between his lips and pauses, knowing that she has his lighter, and that she won't hand it over. Of course she knows that the cigarette won't light itself. Does begging work with Hawkeye? Was anyone ever brave enough to answer that question?

He folds his arms on the table and leans forward, warily examining her from the corner of his eye. He can't tell what she's thinking, but by the anguished look on her face, it probably isn't something for him to know.

"Got a spare light?" he prompts, joking half-heartedly.

"Get your coat, Havoc," she murmurs coolly.

His smile fades a little. It seems that he's outstayed his welcome. Go figure.

"You're kicking me out, huh?"

She shakes her head. "You're not smoking in my apartment… I'm coming with you."

"Oh, I see how it is. You want to be able to breathe fresh air." _Or maybe the colonel's coming over later, and you don't want him to know I was here._

"If it's not too much to ask," she dryly returns.

They both retrieve their coats, Havoc tells Black Hayate to hold down the fort while they're gone, and two of them step outside without another word.

They're the only two people out here, as far as he can tell. Probably because it's freezing out, like twenty degrees or maybe colder, but what bugs him most is the wind. He shivers involuntarily. Christ, that cigarette would be good right about now.

It snows softly, and Havoc watches a streetlight to see the flurries descend around the circle of light around the lamp. He blinks when snowflakes touch his eyelashes.

Riza nudges him, shaking him from his entrancement with the snow and streetlamp, and he looks down to see the lighter in her hand. With a nod of thanks, he reaches out to take it.

Her grip doesn't yield, and he stills with his fingers draped over hers. Confused blue eyes shift to copper ones. Is this a cruel joke on her part?

"They'll kill you, Jean," she murmurs haltingly in a sort of explanation.

He lets out a breath through his nose in a half-assed attempt at a laugh, and gives her a lopsided smile.

"Then I'll just call you the enabler," he says darkly. "How would that be?"

"Don't say that," she says gruffly, but she loosens her grasp on the lighter and he takes it from her.

They're both silent, but not for lack of understanding one another.

It takes a few tries for the stupid cheap lighter to work, but as soon as he takes a long drag he decides that the wait is worth it.

He puts the lighter away and shoves his hands in his coat pockets to keep warm. Riza's still quiet. He's waiting for her to say something enlightening, or maybe to tell him, 'Alright, that's enough, go home,' but she doesn't say a damn thing. Not when or what he expects her to, anyway.

"You're wearing cologne," she observes, turning her head to gaze up at him accusingly.

"Christmas gift," he automatically explains. _From a girl who dumped me._ "Something wrong with that?" His eyebrows fly up.

"You're trying to mask the smell of cigarettes, but it doesn't work."

He narrows his eyes in irritation. Geez, why won't she let this go? He deliberately turns away from her prying eyes. She's trying to make him say something, and he doesn't know what.

"With all due respect, First Lieutenant, I think it's time for me to go."

"Havoc…"

He turns halfway and looks up at her, eyebrows raised expectantly. "What?"

"It's just nice to have you around, that's all," she murmurs. "…But if you want to kill yourself one cigarette at a time," she adds, her voice a tad stronger, "then be my guest."

He laughs through his nose again. "Alright, so how about I go with one cigarette a day?" he bargains, even though he doubts he'll be able to accomplish his own guidelines. But the alternative to his offer is probably Riza shooting him in the leg or some other punishment, smoking be damned.

"I suppose that's a start," she concedes with a little nod.

She'll be on his case about it if he doesn't. Maybe she won't say anything, but she'll look at him with those disapproving eyes, like an older sister might do.

He honestly feels better now. He thinks he might be able to look at himself in the mirror tonight when he brushes his teeth. Still single, but he feels better.

He shivers when a gust of wind blows his coat away from his legs, and squints at the sudden chill in his face.

Riza appears to be impervious to the cold, but she doesn't miss his response to the frigid air.

"Go home, Lieutenant."

He cracks another lopsided grin, and catches a twinkle in her eye at his reaction to her authoritative instruction.

"Guess I'd better," he answers, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. "Thanks for the tea."

"You're welcome… Take care of yourself."

"You too… Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she replies.

Once again, they manage to communicate in silence, and master the rest of the conversation with eye contact. He knows he can come visit her anytime, and that he'd be willing to return the favor, should the colonel give her hell. And he will.

Even though they're off duty, he tosses the cigarette into the snow and straightens into a salute, which she dutifully returns. They retain eye contact, sharing a moment of respect of both friendship and military obligation. He loosens only when she lets her hand fall to her side.

Afterward, he lazily turns, shoving his hands into his pockets as he heads toward home, boots crunching softly in the thin layer of snow.


End file.
